The Paid Price
by AGENT Kuma-chan
Summary: It's those traces of memories, on wood and glass and puffs of bitter smoke, that get to him. --Watanuki, Mokona, Yuuko. Hints of Domeki/Watanuki/Himawari.


**Title: **The Paid Price  
**Day/Theme**: Sept. 16, 2009 // miss you quite terribly  
**Series: **xxxHolic  
**Character/Pairing:** Watanuki, Yuuko, mentions of Himawari, Domeki, Mokona  
**A/N:** I hope I got the slow, contemplative tone I was aiming for...  
**Summary:** _It's those traces of memories, on wood and glass and puffs of bitter smoke, that get to him._

...

...

...

It's something he notices less and less as time goes on yet the sense of loss grows bigger with each tick of the clock. It's a dull throb, he supposes, one that pounds on his very being so much that over time he gets used to it.

(And this he finds the oddest. How does one get used to another's disappearence, to the very loss of another's existance?)

Either way, Watanuki manages to move through the shop without seeing the marks left behind, traces of memories on wood and glass. Her fingerprints are not as distinct on the glasses she used to drink out, the sake bottles that used to line the counters remain untouched and waiting for her. The scent of smoke lingers in the air still, fading away on butterfly wings, and he doesn't have to look to hard to catch her reflection in the mirror.

-x-

Domeki visits him nearly everyday, Himawari less. The conversations are stitled at worst and more silence than words at best. Sometimes he can see the could-have-beens in their expressions, the feelings that remain on the tightrope wire, waiting for a sign from him. With a laugh and a smile, he could add colour to a monochrome world.

He thinks of it as another price he has to pay, one dearer and closer to him than he expected, an icy breathing hole that closes over time.

(Himawari raises a hesitant hand, grasping the future that slips away through her fingertips. It slides away, gaining speed with each broken word, with each touch that doesn't reach. Domeki still chases it, in his calm, sedative manner. If she cannot keep it, then he can.)  
-x-

In the twilight, all that remains are Mokona, Maro, and Maru. The girls stopped crying after a while (_we trust you, Watanuki_, and those words carry the weight of a thousand worlds), taking to sleeping early in Yuuko's old bedroom. They curl up together, small kittens seeking their mother, and it is hard to cover them with a blanket of promises and hopes, not knowing if or when he can keep them.

Mokona never says anything about the tears that shine faintly when Watanuki leaves the room, the trembling of fingers when he closes a door that always opened to some outrageous request. Instead he demands sake and food and more sake with a teasing grin and a raised hand, imitating what used to be done spontanously before.

One, two, three bottles of sake are drowned by Mokona as the two sit on the porch. The sickled moon shines faintly on them (she was like the moon, a distant being he could never understand), and the fireflies dance in the light. He can hear the slight breeze waft through the leaves and finds not much has changed since she's left.

"She's still not back," Watanuki muses as he smokes the pipe. Like every drug, it gets easier with time (like her, he realizes. When did he get used to her ways?) and the next puff is almost sweet in the cool air. "I suppose it is too early."

Mokona remains silent, sipping slowly and contemplatively. "It went like she expected."

"True," Watanuki agrees. "I was blind not to have seen the signs." Blind and niave, a child not wanting to see the truth until it hit him.

"She didn't want you to."

But that wasn't fully true, because Yuuko never hid those things. She left them in sight, waiting to be found but knowing that they probably won't be.

Mokona refills his bowl, offering it to Watanuki. "Here, try some." There is nothing teasing about Mokona right now and Watanuki takes the bowl silently. Tipping it in his mouth, he rolls it on his tongue.

He swallows, the bitter taste like acid in his throat.

(It tastes like reality and he takes another sip.)

...  
...


End file.
